


rose red mouth

by homo_pink



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I need a father who’s a role model, not some horny geekboy who’s gonna spray his shorts whenever I bring a friend home from school."</i><br/> <br/>(Just a cheap, quickly written American Beauty AU with Lester!Jensen and Angela!Jared)</p>
            </blockquote>





	rose red mouth

It happens in the Ackles' family home under the concealing hand of a quiet weekday evening. In the garage to be specific, and on the vinyl bean bag chair next to Mr. Ackles' weight bench to be poetically precise. 

The thing is boring-beige and cocoony and it squeaks against Jared's legs where they're gapped to hold Mr. Ackles between them, close to Jared's body, above his jittery, jerky 16-year-old heart. And Jared swipes at stupid teary lashes, babyish, whispers out, "It's just. I mean. I — don't ever want to be ordinary." 

Mr. Ackles folds in even closer, shades a smile against Jared's pinked chest and softly tells him that he never ever could.

 

—

 

He doesn't plan on anything actually happening. He doesn't go out of his way, not at first. Doesn't miss a step. Because he can't. There's a routine.

Life is neat and tidy and pure, dusted regularly, clockwork. Martha Stewart is God and the devout Connie Ackles genuflects primly. Soiled socks are put in hampers, fresh fruit in their baskets, and dead dreams are stored Heaven-high up on shelves, out of reach. Sleep is empty, his pulse is quiet, and outside, the repetitious bounce of the ball on pavement is jarring.

"Henry's first game is Friday," she says, spooning banana puree into a bowl. "He's been practicing every night."

"That's nice," Jensen agrees, pre-programmed, as the ball smacks the side of the house like crashing cymbals. 

Like a car crash. 

Like a fatality. 

Like death. 

Jensen is dead. 

"Seven o'clock in the gymnasium. We should get there early," she smiles down at her yellow slosh, mouth pulled clownlike at the corners.

Jensen nods responsively, responsibly, blinks, and goes back to counting the heartbeat seconds of his wasted years timebomb-ticking by. He never sees the love of his life coming, is the thing.

 

—

 

"Yo, your parents showed," Jared says, scanning the bleachers. He nudges Henry in the neck with a pointy elbow. That looks like Henry's mom anyway. Jared remembers her lipsticked teeth from Parent-Teacher Conference night.

Henry spots them in the crowd, groans. Pretends not to see his mother waving royal blue pom-poms and his dad looking comatose at the scoreboard, eerily blank.

He knows Henry despises his parents. His father especially. _Corny_ and _dopey_ and _fucking tragic_. Henry's favorite adjectives when forced to speak of his dork of a dad. It's not a big deal. Hating parents is a rite of passage.

Jared leans back on the bench, idles over Mr. Ackles' dull expression, and thinks to himself, says to Henry, "Wow, he must've been a baby when he had you, huh?" and squirts a stream of blue Gatorade down his throat.

Henry squawks and rages and tells Jared to piss off, _gross, dude, don't look at my dad like that_ , and Jared laughs obnoxiously. 

 

—

 

Jensen is _mesmerized_.

Dry mouthed, wet pantsed, big fat pink hearts in his eyes, the whole cartoon wolf package.

It takes a while to notice him, to notice anything at all, but as he's tuning back into the game, he finds the boy there at the center of the court, #11, long and narrow and wristing sweat out of his eyes, and Jensen feels physically repulsed at the notion that he'll eventually have to look away again. 

He has a very detailed daydream of jerking off on that boy's face. 

When he breaks through to the surface again, the wife is shouting into her megaphone, the audience is on their feet, and the husband's still reeling, buzzer going off, timer at 0:00, wondering the logistics of stealing a game-worn jockstrap while #11 is still in the showers, after, maybe.

Padalecki, it says on his jersey. _Padalecki_ , Jensen says to himself, tonguing it around in his mouth.

 

—

 

Pained, Henry introduces Jared to his folks after the game, out in the parking area, fluorescent lot lamps soaking everything in an otherworldly magicked blue. At least, that's how Jared will remember it later. Dreamlike. 

"Jared," Mr. Ackles repeats as he shakes Jared's hand like he might just press a kiss to the top. His voice is membrane-thin and watery, too loose. "You — you were _magnificent_ out there."

" _Dad_ ," Henry says, turning murder-red. Mr. Ackles is practically waving a boner around. Once his parents have wandered over to their sensible sedan, Henry looks over at Jared on a wince, whines, "Oh god. Sorry for that, man. I don't even know what the fuck."

"LOL," Jared says, sneery. Presses a finger gun to his temple. Mutters, "What a fuh-reak."

Inside though, Jared flutters.

 

—

 

Blood on fire, Jensen makes the call. He twirls the coiled cord around his sweaty fingers, a shove away from giggling, that first crush feel of puppy wags and overdeclared words. 

Henry's in his bedroom shower and Jensen's in his only child's room holding a hotdog phone up to his ear. Connie's out getting fisted by the FedEx guy she thinks Jensen doesn't know about. It's Tuesday, 5 p.m. Right on schedule with the routine.

_"Hello?"_ Jared says over the line. And it's definitely him. Jensen can tell from the way his guts shift around excitedly. 

#11 at school. #2 on his best friend's speed-dial. #1 in Jensen's most vital organ.

_"Hello..."_ Jared says again, amused-like. Jensen thinks back, 'Hi!' and 'I've been waiting lifetimes to find you.', and stays quiet. _"Ever hear of caller ID? I know it's you, Henry. I can hear you breathing."_

Jensen breathes harder.

_"All right, if you're not gonna say anything,"_ Jared says, a touch annoyed now, just as the water noise stops, the plastic curtain yanked open. 

Jensen panics hysterically and slams the wiener down on the bun, scampers hot out of the room. He runs like a skinned-kneed child all the way downstairs. Heaving, stomping, grinning bubbles.

 

—

 

Early to school, he's propped against the side of the B wing, hidden from the teacher car lot, holding a pack of reds and his Pink Floyd lighter when he sees Henry and his dad pull up near the bus circle. Henry says something, rolls beady eyes he got from his mother, surely, and clenches on to the straps of his satchel. 

Through the slit open door, Jared can just barely make out a slice of cheekbone, ridge-break dip of a nose, James Dean jawline. Jared's squinting to see all this, sure, but when he realizes he's actively staring — is when he realizes it's mutual. Mr. Ackles' dicksucking mouth is hung open-ready, eyes wide, trembled frame locked in by his seatbelt.

Jared fumbles out a cigarette, jams it in his mouth, looks away hard. Henry approaches in a tense ball of teenage loathing.

"Talent scout's coming this week," Jared says, just to say. "I'm gonna get a full ride."

"Psychic?"

"Don't need to be. I'll just blow him."

"Ugh, jesus. Why do you always have to say shit like that?" Henry grumps, kicking an empty, squashed 7-Up can. "And how can you even—"

"What? Everybody does it," Jared says, still distracted, watching Henry's dazzling, dickable, god of a dad pull out onto the street, nothing like the sort of boys that walk the high school halls, faces like wet farts. "How do you think I get A's in all my classes? You don't have to be such a child. It's just a suckjob."

Later, when he's fingercombing messy hair in his locker mirror and he remembers, he says, "And quit calling me just to pant in my ear. That shit was weird last night, okay," but Henry swears he didn't, why the fuck would I, shut up Jared. 

 

—

 

The idea comes to him when he's zoning out in his cubicle, number-crunching and slogging over data input, listless, leaden. Henry's buddy isn't new to town, he doesn't think, but the friendship must be recently acquired. Jensen knows profoundly that he'd never seen the boy before. 

Home on his lunch hour, Sears slacks pooled down around his feet, last year's yearbook has been found in the attic and opened to p. 23, **M - P**. 

With wet-noodled legs and a tremored forearm, Jensen splashes neatly, yearningly, on the grainy face fourth row down, second box in. Jensen's hormone-hot at the cheeks and twisty good inside, and he wipes his mess down before he drives back to the office. 

Spectacular.

 

—

 

Jared's the first to hear it because he's on high alert for it, the snick of the key in the front door lock. Ears pricked, neck craned. Jared throws down the controller, scoots forward on the sofa cushion, says, "The sperm and egg are home. I should go say hi to your dad, huh?" Wings his brows in a sleazy waggle. 

"Dude—" Henry says, but Jared's already up and off, crept up to the kitchen, curled peeking around the corner.

 

—

 

Thursday was spaghetti and regret, yesterday was king ranch chicken with extra misery, tonight is fix-it-yourself-you-ungrateful-shithead, and Jensen's leaned into the fridge looking to do so, maybe cream cheese and crackers, not like it matters. There's no flavor in anything anymore.

"Oooh, mexican cherry coke, my favorite."

Jensen yelps, skids back a bit and bangs the edge of his knee against the swung open freezer door. He bumbles a weird greeting when he sees the boy there watching him, skin all supple and sun-brown and pretty. His eyes are multihued and sly, tracking up the taut length of a nervous dad. Jared's hair is untethered in a free flow, wisped around his ears. His mouth a cool blush, rosewater, pink like wet dicks. Jensen is soaked.

"Do you mind if I just..." Jared says, already reaching in, huge skinny hand leaned on Jensen's arm for support and Jensen nods. He voicelessly offers up his ribs to break open, all of its contents therein. Jared can have anything he wants.

 

—

 

In all of the family frames lining the hallway walls, Mr. Ackles looks like a smiling, cheerful stock photo. Crest-white teeth and sparklingly easy to look at, but stunning in a defeated way, eyes all mundane normality, bottled messages, S.O.S.

He looks the way Jared sometimes feels.

 

—

 

"Oh, I forgot," Henry is saying to Connie, the boys all hunched together and conspiratorial. Jensen, cowed, quietly eats his dinner crackers over the sink, careful of crumbs, careful to keep his eyes down and away.

"It's okay if Jared spends the night, right, mom?"

Jensen chokes hard on his Ritz, spittle and dust spewing onto the clean tupperware lids. His whole fucking body violently pulses in one long, shivered thrum and he rushes away before he even hears his wife saying _of course, honeypie, of course_.

 

—

 

"Fuck, stop apologizing about your parents already, man. That shit's old, like who cares?"

"It's just — my _dad_ , he's so. Obvious. Panting after your ass everywhere you go, it's like he's in heat _all the time_. How can you stand that shit?"

"I don't know," Jared says boredly, flicking through a mag. "He's not even that bad. I mean. He's kind of cute even. What? Oh come on, like you don't have working eyes."

"Dude!"

"What," Jared says again, harder. "He probably hasn't been laid since before you were born, he's clearly in distress. And I dunno man, it's just, what a fuckin' waste. Say, if he worked out a little, just tightened up some, shit, _yeah_." It's a lie. Mr. Ackles is a _specimen_.

"Oh holy shit, gross—"

But Jared's found the thread again, starts to tug, joyous in the unravel, hopped up off the bed, shaking his crotch in Henry's face, cackling, "Oh and you just know he's got a big cock in those pleated khakis, all adult and ready and _experienced_." 

Henry swats at him ineffectually, shouting, darting hands and words, screaming _shut up, shut up, you're such a pig_ , but he's laughing, about to puke.

"Ohhhh, mmm, Mr. Ackles, Mr. Ackles — I'd totally fuck him. Take him all down my throat and call him _daddy_ and—"

For a puny little punk, Henry's got a mean right gutpuncher. He socks Jared right in the sternum, shuts his ass up good, and they both fall to floor shrieking, trying to strangle each other in nothing but their underwear, laughing loud and long and hiccupped. 

 

—

 

For what it's worth, Jensen doesn't outright die or anything.

He doesn't flop over, his eyes don't roll up into his head like a baptismal, he doesn't slide onto the floor in a goopy, soaring, delirious puddle. 

Jensen unsticks his ear from where it's been cupped spy-like to his young son's door, and then he calmly walks to the garage, contemplates the sooty exercise bike, the rower, and takes off his button-up shirt, grabs a couple of 50 lb dumbbells to start with.

 

—

 

The next few weeks are surely something of a bizarre mating ritual. A mockery of the courting dance, it feels like. As much as he can get away with, Jared starts hanging around at the Ackles' more and more. 

After school projects, occasional dinners, volunteering to help with outdoor chores, some weedwhacking, stupid shit he couldn't be paid to do. At least not monetarily. 

But Jared cashes out in glimpses, in peeks at shy hellos sent his way and the awkward, clumsy haste Mr. Ackles uses to sidestep Hurricane Jared's path. Jared quenches the parched parts of him that have gone thirsty too long, and Mr. Ackles watches him a lot when he thinks Jared's too busy futzing with the trimmer to notice. 

Jared hums _Comfortably Numb_ under his breath when he can sense Mr. Ackles nearby and equably goes on like every muscle isn't sweating and aching, begging for earnest contact. 

He eats a jar of maraschino cherries in the backyard and ties a handful of stems with his teeth and tongue.

Mr. Ackles runs away a lot.

 

—

 

During the day, Jensen's just Jensen. He's checkered polos and inventory reports and yellow gold wire-frames he got at the mall in a 2-for-1 special that slope down his nose all wrong.

But at night, under the low beam grunge light of his workout area, lithe arms muscling up, belly pulled flatter, Jensen stands taller, and in the mirror he looks like he could actually be somebody. He looks like something he once knew, a flickered wash of possibility. Like something that a 16-year-old boy with a soft mouth and a fuck-me body might actually even want, maybe, someday.

 

—

 

Jared isn't vapid, or a nympho, and his dick's not going to fall off from chlamydia.

And despite knowing all of this in a very solid way, he still has to hide the hurt in his voice, shaky, when Henry says these things to him one sleepover night, tells him to _fuck off and get out_ , he's going to bed, he doesn't want to see Jared there when he wakes, and Jared has to growl, "You're a fucking cunt," as he hurries out of the bedroom, blinking back a childish sting at the eyes.

It's because of Mr. Ackles, the fight. It was always going to be.

 

—

 

Stretched sore from his workout, high and happy and gently unassuming, Jensen comes into the shadow of his peep-quiet house and finds a long, long somebody in his game day jersey sitting at the end of the staircase, head lowered between his shoulders, backwards cap bobbing with each shuddered sob.

"Are you—" Jensen says, delicate. Steps closer. "Is everything okay?"

The breadth of Jared's shoulders is utterly exquisite from this angle and they go frighteningly still at Jensen's approach. When Jared looks up, ruddy and expressive, pained, Jensen has to grab the banister post to catch his balance. He's the sweetest looking kid in the entire world. And Jensen wants to ride him from 0 to 60, splatter his brains out everywhere.

"No. No, I— Henry and me, we. He hates me. He thinks I was only using him to get to—" But he doesn't finish. Just looks up at Jensen miserably, hopefully, something on offer.

And Jensen says carefully, "Would you like to see a secret?"

 

—

 

It's an ultra rare Arnold Layne vinyl, all psychedelic orange and pristine in its plastic casing, one of the earliest Floyd items Jared's ever seen, a special thing Mr. Ackles had hidden in a lockbox behind the power tools. 

"If you want it, it's yours," Mr. Ackles says, soft in a fog of breath, like he doesn't just mean the record.

Jared blinks quickly, chokes down something that wants to be born right there in that hazy garage, and — and it brings a chump ass lump to his throat, knowing full well how Mr. Ackles must feel, and just how much. Jared vigilantly sets it down, turns, and kisses Mr. Ackles right on the mouth, cries a little when he's kissed immediately _back_. Mr. Ackles is the special thing.

 

—

 

"Keep it on," Jensen hears himself saying like a fool, begged out, when the boy's hand goes to knock off his cap, when his fingers skirt the edge of his mesh shirt to lift it up and off and away. "Please," he says, babbling nonsensically, because he wants to see Jared, all of him, he does, but.

Like this, adorned in his childish accessories, spread out under Jensen like a whorehouse buffet, he's every secret Jensen ever nurtured.

Out on that court, he was untouchable, indestructible. But here in Jensen's static, secreted corner of the garage, with a couple of Jensen's fumbling fingers pushed up into his perfect teenaged body, naked from the waist down and hitching quick breaths, he's broken wide open, by choice, by plea.

"O-kay," Jared says, somewhat shakily, and stays half dressed, hat askew, legs akimbo. 

 

—

 

Jared, a true genius at calculations and statistics, was 100% correct in his guesstimation of the contents kept in Mr. Ackles' pants.

 

—

 

Jensen's riveted by the sights, eyes trance-like down below where he's gentling his way into the boy, knuckles all shiny wet and bunched together, little scooping motions that have Jared quivering against the chair, hunched and jolting, biting at his cheeks and looking panicked— 

"Hey, Jared, should I not—"

"No, no, please," Jared says, grabbing hold of Jensen's forearms, nubbed nails aiming for blood, and Jensen can't help himself, slides ready knees along the concrete floor, scoots in all close and humid and bends down for proper worship.

Jared shouts, kicks out with his ankle, jerks like a babypink worm speared on a hook. On an animal instinct, his knees try to come together in a rush and he shudders once, hard, goes still like he's died right there in Jensen's glossy, cupped open mouth. 

The boy, of course, is perfect everywhere. Sweet and silky and _so_ much of it — warm on Jensen's tongue, hot on his breath.

When Jensen looks up languid and full-bellied, kitten with telltale milk splashes at the mouth, Jared is squirming oddly. He's moving to cover his crotch with the hem of his jersey, no longer meeting Jensen's eye, and Jensen's misplaced heart is a pump away from splintering fracture when Jared says, small and nothing like the 10-foot-tall kid Jensen first met, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Fuck-dumb, Jensen blinks, says buzzily, "Was the whole point, I thought?" 

Jared's babies are still sliding their way down Jensen's throat when Jared laughs, hollow and unhappy, tells him — not that soon, he didn't know, was his first time, he's a virgin, I'm sorry, Mr. Ackles, I'm sorry.

 

—

 

The truth of it is that Jared's whole existence is built upon carefully constructed lies and bravado. It's nothing more than years of playing pretend in a body of bruisable skin too large to be his own, coltishly weird, and he's always been extra assholish to make up for it. 

He never banged Mrs. Hesterly into changing his C- Latin exam into an A; he studied his ass off for three nights to bump up his grade with extra credit. He didn't fuck the new girl from homeroom the week she enrolled the way he said he did, in the equipment office; he hadn't even really tried. 

Jared, though he does his finest work in playing the part, has never actually tasted a flavor other than his own; licked off curious, salty, constantly fapping fingers.

Jared's never ever touched anybody so beautiful before.

Mr. Ackles is ethereal. And he's straddled across Jared's green green grasshopper legs, tucked tight around Jared's helplessly hitching hips.

He doesn't laugh when Jared admits these things, doesn't ask why or how or mutter disbeliefs, doesn't make him feel abnormal about it the way any of the cumbubbles he goes to school with would. 

Mr. Ackles puts his tongue in Jared's mouth, then lowers his head to Jared's chest, rests there for a muted minute, hushed, breathing, and then he asks if Jared wants to trade flowers.

"That's what my mother used to call it," Mr. Ackles says, smiling sweet, fluttered lashes against his cheeks, bashfully bright. "The flower. You know, like."

Like.

"Deflowering?" Jared asks, his dick plumping up fat and warm again, wondering if Mr. Ackles means what Jared thinks he couldn't possibly mean, even though as he's speaking, he's reaching down between them, skittering fingertips to touch where Jared's shamefully wet, _again_ , and takes him into his hand.

"You like cherries, don't you?"

Jared flushes, grins hugely, and then gasps out a laugh against the curve of Mr. Ackles' sweetly speckled shoulder. He can't help the relieved groan that comes rushing out of him when Mr. Ackles sinks down on him in a slow motion slide.

 

—

 

Jensen, too, shares a few firsts. 

It's the first time he's ever had another person — there, and the first time in years that life has ever been so shockingly messy, foul words and nervous smiles and the filthiest, rudest noises he's ever heard, and it's the first time he's ever actually been in the sort of love that books are written about.

And after, when Jared's shot off inside him and they're laying cat-curled on the beanbag in a slippery, stickied tangle of euphoria and exhaustion, trading one of Jared's reds between them, counting hickies and freckles, guy on the record singing about moonshine and washing line, Jared giggles to himself, lips like roses, and whispers, "You were magnificent." 

He kisses the top of Jensen's hand.

Jensen is finally awake. 

And Jared will never be ordinary.


End file.
